Stereotype
by The Only Pancake
Summary: The over-achiever. The troublemaker. The athlete. The quiet kid. Everyone knows these types, among countless other sorts of labels. These people become faces among the throng. Nobody ever stops to wonder what made them the way they are, until now.
1. Chapter 1

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**A/N: **These are my ponderings of how wrongly we tend to stereotype people these days. How does anyone ever know what makes a person act/seem the way they are? Does anyone ever stop to realize that they could be so far off it's not even funny? So follows a one-shot for each main character, varying in length. It's all-human.

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_Rising Star._

She walked onto the court, and several hundred people began to scream her name. The furious chanting burst into an excited roar when the young high schooler laughed, waving to the stands.

Seventeen-year-old Rosalie Hale was adored by tennis players of all ages; in thirty-six different states, and three countries. She picked up a racket at twenty-months-old, and now she was making history.

She took a seat in her chair on the side of the court and tightly tied her shoes. She didn't want to trip and hurt herself, of course! A loose shoe led to tears and breaks.

Her aunt, who was both her coach and her legal guardian, came to stand behind her and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"Are you ready, Rose?" Aunt Sally asked, her voice full of encouragement and hope. "This is the big one."

"It's just another game." She answered, her voice flat with concentration as she looked at her opponent across the court. Her head was entirely focused on simply doing her best today.

No, it made no difference to her that winning this one would make her eligible to attend the Australian Open as a new rookie-professional player.

No, it made no difference that losing today would mean she had to train twice as hard as usual to struggle to the level she was currently at, let's not event talk about _advancing_.

No, it made no difference at all.

She played for fun, not fame. Win or lose she'd always tried her very best, and gracefully accept the outcome. That was what people loved about her the most.

The whistle sounded through the stadium. The audience started to fall into a near-silent hush. In several short minutes the players would be required to begin. Rosalie watched her opponent choose her racket and then skip to her side of the court.

She glanced questioningly at Rosalie. She was silently asking if they were going to hit warm-up shots. Even professionals did it. Serious players cared more about being ready for the game then the fact that they were getting ready with the person they hoped to win against.

Rosalie smiled and picked up her own racket. Aunt Sally handed her a half-empty water bottle. She reminded, "You need to stay hydrated."

The girl took the water from her, and chugged it down a few seconds later before tossing the bottle aside.

"Make me proud, Rose." Aunt Sally said, as she said before every game. Rosalie just chuckled at her and walked onto the court.

She was relaxed as she started to hit the ball around with her opponent before the game. Even in warm-up she tried to display her skill by never letting the ball escape her, and never hitting the net.

Such a serious player! It was no wonder that the world loved her. She was of a rare breed, a good-natured player who loved to play the game. Being good at it was just a plus, to Rosalie.

_She was dedicated._

_She was a fighter._

_**She was a **__**rising star**__._

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_Alcoholic._

The locker room was my favorite place to be. I was safe here. I didn't have the demanding eyes of people pinning me down. I didn't have camera flashing for Internet pictures and autographs. I didn't have those piranhas of reporters ready to interview my success to over-hype a defeat.

It was just my water bottle and me in the locker room. If I should even call it that. The bottle may have had water in it once, but the clear liquid that filled half of the plastic container was far from water. It held the same thing I had consumed two bottles of in the last twelve hours.

I glanced at the clock; it was time to do the only thing I was good for. _Sigh_.

I emerged from the tunnel that leads to the center of the stadium- to the court. The stands went from relatively quiet to screaming eagerly the instant the sunlight illuminated my presence.

A hard laugh escaped my chest, idiots. Sheep. They loved me because the news told them to love me. They screamed praise and excitement because they honestly thought that their "encouragement" helped me play better. They were pitiful excuses for people. I didn't need any of them. I didn't _want_ any of them.

But I smiled and waved anyway, because that was what was required of me. The screams turned into a thunderous echo of self-accomplishment. They cheered, I repaid their useless support with a meaningless twitch of my arms, and it made them feel useful in life.

If that is what got them through the night, I supposed it was the least I could do.

I crossed the court and sat in my lawn chair, mechanically re-tying my shoes. There had been many moments where I willed myself to keep them loose. I wanted them to come undone. I wanted to trip and break my ankle. I wanted some _unfortunate accident_ to permanently ruin my unwanted career.

I would never do it, though. I needed tennis the way the sport needed me. It needed me for social awareness and popularization. I needed it for the money that kept my aunt off my back, therefore making my life a little bearable. A little.

Speaking of _her_, she shadowed behind me and clasped her hands on my shoulders. Her too-tight grip bit into my skin with enough force to bruise. "Are you ready, Rose? This is the big one."

Her voice was dripping with fake-sincerity and energy that we both knew neither of us had anymore. I could see right through her mask. She was threatening me to win. She was warning me that she didn't pull me out of foster care when I was four and dedicate the next thirteen years of her life shoving me harshly into the mold she wanted for me to mess up and waste the effort.

She had given me food and water. She gave me clothes, a house, and a bed. She gave me skills that would make me good money and a name that people worshiped. I owed her everything, and all she demanded was that I never lose.

It was easy. I hated it.

"It's just another game." I answered emotionlessly. I was distracted from trying to sound spiteful today as my eyes locked onto the girl I was playing against, Lauren something-or-another.

She was smiling. She was laughing with her coach, who _must_ have been an older brother or a father by the resemblance in them. She was happy.

If she lost that man would sling his arms around her shoulder and kiss her cheek. He would tell her that he was proud of her, because she tried her best and that was all that mattered.

I wish I had someone like that in my life.

The whistle that rang above all the noise yanked me back into awareness. Lauren entered the court, and met my eye hopefully. I forced a good-sportsmanship smile and snatched my newly strung racket off the ground.

Aunt Sally met my eye as she handed me my bottle from earlier. "You need to stay hydrated."

I felt my heart burning with loathing as I took it from her. She was the one who found out, five years ago, that I played better if I was buzzed. The vodka made me feel fuzzy. I didn't need to worry about missing a ball, or faulting, or losing a set.

As long as I had that strong, clear liquid poisoning me I never lost. Stress didn't make me mess up, and if I didn't have stress to worry about then I had _nothing_ to worry about except for playing the game.

I drank it in a handful of short seconds and thrust it aside.

"Make me proud, Rose." My aunt recited the ritual phrase. I knew what _that_ meant, too. She was reminding me something that she would just straight out tell me behind closed doors. Failure was not an option, if I ever wanted her to love me.

I wanted her to love me, as sad as that was. I wanted to let her ruin my liver and my mental health if it meant I could make her smile. If it meant I could make her hug me, and tell me how well I played.

I still laughed bitterly at her words, because it was just not fair. It wasn't fair that I had to work so hard at something I hated in trade of something that should come naturally.

I went on the court, knowing that I would crush this Lauren girl. I would smile after the game as I shook her hand, and tell her how good of a player she was and how I admired her ability. I had to, because it's what the press wanted.

I would try to rely on the mass amounts of straight vodka I had consumed since last night. I would let it control me and stop me from screwing up my chance at love. I had to, because it was my only option.

_I was pressured._

_I was afraid to lose._

_**I was an**__** alcoholic**__._

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	2. Chapter 2

_Shy and Bumbling._

Isabella Marie Swan was that girl everyone loved, and they didn't even know why. _She_ didn't even know why!

Maybe it was her temperament. She the kindest, gentlest girl in the school. If someone accidentally knocked into her she would brush away his or her apologies and scamper the other direction. If anyone ever needed to talk, she would just sit back and listen. And, of course, she was always polite.

Maybe it was her demeanor. She was quiet, never one to believe or spread nasty rumors about the other kids. She was always relaxed with her classmates. She lived a very private life, and because of that she never pried into anyone else's personal business.

Maybe it was how genuine she was. When you first meet her, she'd say _Call me Bella-_ and you'd instantly feel like you were her closest friend. The smile and innocent brown eyes that followed let you know you were safe with this girl. She was the type that could keep your secrets. She was everyone's friend.

Perhaps, even, it was her endearing sort of natural charm. If someone asked her a question she connected to a personal or memorable thought, the most appealing sort of flush would grace her cheeks. She was not super social, so it happened often.

She was clumsy, too, but not at _all_ in the annoying sort of way; like one of those kids that always seemed to knock your books from your hands.

No, Bella's tendency to trip over her own feet and invisible rocks only added to her perfection. She was the trip-and-need-to-be-caught type. The ones that all her chivalrous friends such as Mike Newton, Eric Yorkie, and Tyler Crowley (just to name a few) loved to be around. She was the type that made them seem sweet and reliable, because they were always there to catch her.

What many people would consider best about her was not any single one of these quirks, but all of the traits bundled together to create the darling girl all of Forks liked to fawn over.

_She was Bella._

_She was the very icon of likable._

_**She was shy and bumbling.**_

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_Sexually assaulted._

I never used to be the sort of person that I was today. The fearful and fake sort.

Once upon a time, I had fire in me. Elementary school, that's when it was. Back in those days I was a real spitfire, I took after my mother Renee I guess. If someone got in my face I would flatten them onto their backs. If my ear was being rattled off I'd tell the offender to stuff a sock in it. I was mean, I was rude, and I had no problem with that.

Once upon a time I _wanted_ to be anti-social. What did I need people for? All they did was hurt you. Friends would stab you in the back. Family would stab you in the heart. Parents could hurt you the worst, and mine did just that. Charlie left us when I was six. He told mom that he hated her, because I told him about how Uncle Phil sometimes spent the night with Mommy when Daddy had to work late. After he left Renee told me _she_ hated _me_, because it was my fault the family was broken.

I did have some good qualities as a younger child. Uncle Phil taught them to me, him and his nice friends. The friends that came to visit _me_ at night. I didn't like them at first, but they said that I was special. They told me that they didn't mean to hurt me, and then they'd give me toys before they left. I learn how to mold into what everyone wanted me to be from them. I learned how to never tell a secret. I even learned how to turn my mind off so I didn't have to focus on the bad parts of life. Those were good things, Phil told me.

It turns out he was right all along! Guys started noticing me in fifth grade, four years after dad left and Phil introduced me to his friends. Mike, Eric, Tyler, Ben, Connor; those were just a few of the males who flocked to my sides and have remained there until now, junior year. I didn't understand what they wanted from me, so I was frequently embarrassed with myself in their presence. They never slipped cash into my pockets and led me away. They didn't place the gentle touches on my arms like the older men. They didn't slide their hands up my shirt, or explore the regions under my belt. THAT is what I was good at. It's all I know how to do.

See, Renee got really sick one day after Charlie left us. She was sweaty, and cold, and shivering. She cried to Phil, begging him to help her. Telling him she _needed_ her fix. I asked Phil what was wrong with her, why he wasn't fixing her like she wanted. He told me he didn't have money to buy the sort of medicine she was looking for. I told him I wanted to help. I told him I would do _anything_ to help my mommy.

That's when he invited his friends over. He got me a real pretty dress and some make-up. He put me in his and Renee's room, telling me that I was going to play a game; and that if I didn't cry or make any noise the nice people who I would meet would help us. He said they'd give him the medicine mother needed. He said I'd get a _lot_ because I was so young and adorable. But I had to keep it a secret, because I was part of a club nobody got to join unless HE invited them.

I know more now than I did then, but I still played the games for him. The game cut me off from people at school, but that was okay. I never liked them, anyway.

_Half the age._

_Twice the price._

_**Sexually assaulted.**_

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	3. Chapter 3

_Troublemaker._

Seventeen year old Jasper Whitlock was _that_ kid in the town. Everyone has at least one in his or her neighborhood.

The boy that started fights with the good, straight-A students at the school. The boy that had a criminal record for various nefarious deeds. The one that was too much trouble for his poor, abused mother to handle so she was forced to give him up. The one that caused too much trouble even for those many kind-hearted families willing to take him in.

Not a single parent in the town could look upon young Jasper with accepting eyes. He was throwing his life away, and bringing others down with him!

He had a pack of groupies that he had sucked into his vortex of bad judgment. They did everything the smart kids were afraid to do. Drink. Smoke. Party all night. Pick trouble when they got bored.

It was sad to see the kid heading down such a bad road. It was just heartbreaking to look at the new splint on his hand because he punched some kid too hard. See the scars on his legs from falling off of motorcycles he was too young to drive. See the burn on his hand, a self-inflected wound he used as a cry for help when he was younger.

What was saddest was looking into his cold, unloving blue eyes and knowing that he was shoving away the people who wanted to help him. What could you expect, though, from a kid like him?

_He was just bad news._

_He was setting himself up for failure._

_He liked to stir havoc._

_**He was a troublemaker.**_

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_Foster Child._

Mom started hitting me when I was three. Dad broke my arm when I was nine. Since preschool, I had been dealing with bullies who liked to add bruises onto my sensitive skin. When I was eleven my dad was arrested for beating the hell out of my mom. Single and unemployed, her son was just a burden.

Age eleven. That's the age that I, Jasper Whitlock, entered the system. It was almost seven years ago. My mom called child services and said that she didn't want me anymore. She told them that if they didn't come and take me, she was going to kick me out. It was the middle of winter.

I was useless. I was a waste of her time. She wished that I had never been born. If she had just killed me when I was little, then dad would still be around. She didn't love me. _Nobody_ could ever love a little rat like me.

That's what she told me the day I was taken away.

She was right, you know. She was right about everything. I failed my sophomore year of high school because I wasn't smart enough to understand the classes. I've been arrested eight times and hospitalized twice since becoming a foster kid. Dealing with the aftermath of that wasted the time of whatever "family" I was assigned to.

Family. It was such a foreign word. What was family? I don't know. I never did, and I never would: because mother had been right all along. Nobody would ever be able to love a kid like me.

Since entering the system I've been bounced around twenty-two times. They tried to squeeze me in with everyone to see where I would fit.

Miller.

Davis.

Anderson.

Lopez.

Walker.

Bennett.

Fischer.

Harrison.

Chavez.

Norris.

Bush.

Parks.

Tate.

Gibbs.

Fitzgerald.

Wilcox.

Baxter.

Hurley.

Finch.

Bolton.

Maddon.

All those families took me in. They promised me _they_ were different. _They_ would never hurt me. _They_ would keep me around. _They_ wanted me, because _they_ were not _my_ parents.

Lies. Every one of them. Half of them beat the hell out of me. Three ignored me completely. I've called the crisis hotline on two of them because I thought they were going to kill me. Sixteen of them got rid of me because 'that boy is _much_ too difficult to handle!'

Now I was with the Smith family. They were the worst I've had in a long time. The man broke my wrist a week after I got here because I accidentally dropped a punch bowl.

I was told to never leave my room after school. That _room_ was just a walk-in closet that had a cot in it and a tiny little window for air. I didn't deserve a bigger space, though, because I wasn't anyone special. I was just another reject they were _so very kindly_ keeping around until I turned eighteen in four months.

I wondered to myself at night, as I wiped away the hot, bitter tears that usually streamed down my cheeks, if I would even survive those four months.

But then I curled into the fetal position, hugging a pillow to distract myself from how hungry and sore I always was, and reminded myself that it would be best for them to kill me. I deserved to die, because all I did was rip families apart.

_Because I was useless._

_I was a waste of time._

_I should have never been born._

_**I was a foster child.**_

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	4. Chapter 4

_Dr. Perfect._

He graduated high school at the top of his class when he was just fifteen.

He had his full medical degree by twenty-two.

This year, at the young age of twenty-six, he was appointed as Chief of Staff. He was now in charge of everything that happened in the whole facility.

He could have worked and succeeded at literally the very best hospital in the world. The kind and loving soul he was, he decided to return to his little hometown of Forks and offer his supreme genius there.

Money made no difference to him. He just wanted to help people. He just wanted to make people smile, because that was honestly reward enough for him.

The strapping young man was working overtime, to no shock at all, this snowy winter night. There had been two broken wrists and one shattered leg within the last hour. The snow was so heavy the ambulance barely made it back and forth. It was impossible for _any_ of the doctors to leave, because the night shifters could not come in until the plows went through.

His nose had started to bleed a short while ago. He took Allegra year-round for allergies, and consistent use weakened the capillaries in a persons nose. The whole ten-minutes he had been gone was the only break he had taken in eleven hours. Who had time to stop and sit around doing nothing when broken and bloody town's people needed him?

Emerging from his office, young assistant in tow, he approached the reception desk at the front of the ER. The waiting room was empty, but that didn't mean the patient rooms were not full.

"Caroline," he pleasantly greeted the young lady behind the counter, his smile optimistic. "Is anyone waiting for me?"

The nurse answered as she finished typing her hourly report, "No, Dr. Cullen. We have no new patients at the moment."

She glanced at him, and a little jolt of surprise ran through her. There were deep purple bags under his eyes, and his face looked twice as worn and pale as it had just an hour earlier! His shoulders were sagging by no conscious choice of his own, and the usual life in his eyes seemed to have drained away.

"Doctor," she said rather reproachfully. "You look like Death visited you. Haven't you been getting any sleep?"

When any doctor or nurse had to work a double shift, they were required to at least attempt to snag an hour or three of sleep in the staff bunks beside the locker room. Dr. Cullen just broadened his smile.

"Caroline, I wouldn't be able to sleep if I wanted to." His tone was perky, and the young woman smiled. She was in awe of this man's dedication to his work and his patients.

Turning the other direction the man and his intern headed off towards the little room that was technically a staff lounge. It was really just an old janitor's closet that had one six-seating table and a large refrigerator in it. Dr. Cullen had not seen a need for an actual staff lounge. It would only tempt his employees away from their work.

The doctor plopped into a chair as his assistant, Angela, pulled open a box of wheat crackers. He closed his eyes and crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. A low, deep sigh hissed out from his slightly parted lips.

"You should eat something." The soft-spoken young woman reminded him. "You're working too hard to go on an empty stomach for two days."

The medical chief shook his head slowly, keeping his eyes shut tight. His tone was light but confident when he answered, "My migraine has gotten too bad. I'd only throw up."

They were silent until Dr. Cullen's pager went off. He glanced at it, one of the paramedics. His cell phone rang several long seconds later. He answered, "Dr. Cullen."

"Carlisle?" An old neighbor of his happened to be the EMT on call. Roger, was his name. Roger sounded slightly panicked. "Carlisle, we're eleven minutes from the hospital. I have two red alert patients. A flare backfired on them. One is severely burned, and the other is bleeding from a deep neck wound. I gave him adenosine to try and slow it down."

Suddenly alarmed, Dr. Cullen sprang onto his feet. He announced, "We'll be ready for them when you arrive."

It didn't take long for the staff to start scrambling to prepare two emergency care rooms, and nurses to wait outside with gurneys. Angela and Dr. Cullen shadowed into his office to prepare for the man with the bleeding jugular.

Tired and over-worked, the young man was as calm and certain as ever as he hastened down the hall to tend to the patient. To do what it was that he did best.

_He was intelligent. _

_He was modest. _

_He was hard working and determined. _

_**He was Dr. Perfect.**_

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_Addicted._

I loved my job.

Why wouldn't I? I knew nothing besides this.

The first toy my father ever gave me, at the young age of three, was a play-doctor kit I would dress my stuffed animals with. My mother would scold me for finding band-aids stuck to the walls around the house. He would tell her to calm down, because I was just practicing for when I got older.

The very day I entered first grade I had it drilled into my head that I needed to be the very best there was. I had to go to school even when I was sick, because school was more important than anything. If I got a low score on a test I was severely punished for slacking off, because colleges look at even your elementary records.

I skipped seventh grade entirely. I breezed through the accelerated programs at my private high school, and was stuck in the best college there was with a full scholarship. My father had made damn sure that I learned from only the very best.

Hell, I was better than them before I had even graduated. Every spare second I had you would find me in my room with my nose buried behind a medical catalog. I had every single term memorized by eleven, and all of the useful pills down at seventeen. Diploma when I was nineteen. Finished with my residency at twenty-two.

I was glad that I loved this job. I was glad that I lived, breathed, and knew only medicine. If I were not born simply to be a doctor, I would have snapped from all the demand that came along with this field of work.

At the current moment, I was closed away in my office with my intern. She was a quiet and thoughtful young woman, Angela, but she was the best of her grade. Unafraid to take necessary risks, and confident in herself. She was easy to manipulate, too, which always worked in my favor.

My nose was bleeding all over my jacket sleeve. I was holding ice to the bridge to try and stop the flow as Angela readied a clean over-coat for me. I always kept spares. Surgeons got bloody. Not just that, I was prone to nose bleeds.

I had inhaled too much Stadol again and it was coming back to bite me. I didn't use any damn allergy pills, like I told everyone. I wasn't even allergic to anything! Fucking nose sprays… Made my life more difficult then it already was. Couldn't the damn thing just work for once and make me numb without all this mess?

It took eight minutes, but the bleeding calmed down. Angela held out the fresh jacket. "Here you go, Doctor."

I threw my stained one on my chair and slipped into the new one. Taking a deep breath, I blinked away the pain behind my eyes and sauntered over to the reception desk. I forced myself to smile, and tried to sound as welcoming as I did on my good days. "Caroline, is anyone waiting for me?"

"No, Dr. Cullen. We have no new patients at the moment." She reported as she hit the last period and control-S on her keyboard. She glanced at me, and her eyes widened a little bit. "Doctor, you look like Death visited you. Haven't you been getting any sleep?"

Hah, sleep. It was such a fond and forgotten friend I once used to know. I slept just fine when I was chocking down three OxyCodone every morning. That started making me too jittery, though, and the high dosage caused my hands to shake after a few months of stuffing myself with the drug. I would _never_ risk the life of a patient. If I was going to do surgery, I needed perfect control over my motor skills.

I cut myself off from the strong blue pill a week ago. The gaunt look to me was just the withdrawal protesting. I'd be over it soon enough. I did take other things to help forget about the OxyCodone.

I had the world's best medicine cabinet at my disposal. I could order the deadliest of narcotics by the caseload with a phone call.

"Caroline, I wouldn't be able to sleep if I wanted to." I answered her honestly, forcing myself to sound cheerful. If she had known the actual reason behind that statement, she would not have smiled back.

If I had no patients, I could sit for a while. I led Angela into the little area we stored break-time snacks in. Doctors are moving around so much so fast in the ER, we lose our sugars quite a bit faster then one would think.

I sank into a chair and leaned on the wall, glad to have some support that didn't require muscle effort. I sighed, wishing the throbbing ache in my brain would bother someone else for once.

"You should eat something." Angela quietly informed me. She was such a good little puppy, looking after me all the time. "You're working too hard to go on an empty stomach for two days."

I shook my head a little, unwilling to open my eyes. I had over-dosed on Tramadol before I left my house twelve hours ago. It was that substitute I mentioned earlier. More than 300 milligrams a day can cause debilitating cluster headaches. Hip-hurfuckin-ray.

"My migraine has gotten too bad. I'd only throw up." I answered truthfully. Angela knew about my narcotics reliance. She helped me when I needed her help. She had been against it at first. Scared for my license, and her future career. I guilted her into keeping quiet by pointing out that if I was caught because of her, a lot of people in Forks might die. I had a spectacular no-die record.

She would get over it. One day she would learn that I was not alone. Most of us doctors, all of the good ones, needed the extra boost.

My pager began to beep and vibrate. I glanced at it, an EMT number. Like clockwork, my phone rang eleven seconds later. I answered it, "Dr. Cullen."

Roger, the kid I used to taunt for not being as smart as I when we were young, sounded alarmed as he spoke. "Carlisle? Carlisle, we're eleven minutes from the hospital. I have two red alert patients. A flare backfired on them. One is severely burned, and the other is bleeding from a deep neck wound. I gave him adenosine to try and slow it down."

I sprang to my feet, feeling horror spark inside of me. A flare could cause third degree burns. _Hot water_ could cause them! And the artery on the neck being punctured meant almost certain death. We had to work fast. "We'll be ready for them when you arrive."

I raced out of the room and shouted at my idle staff what was happening, urging them strongly to be ready before the ambulance arrived. I assigned one of the other doctors to the burn victim, and tugged Angela into my office with me.

I tossed a capped needle at her and demanded, "Inject that between my shoulder blades." I scrambled out of my over-coat and shirt, dropping them to the ground. Angela obediently stuck the sumatriptan needle in and squirted the liquid. It was a migraine medication. I couldn't be confused by head pain during a surgery.

I pulled a small package out of my desk drawer and ripped it open. I slapped the Fentanyl patch onto my stomach and took the lighter Angela handed me. She looked guilty. Forcing the eight-hour slow release patch to flood my system too fast was dangerous. Fentanyl overdose killed more people a year than knife wounds.

She should not have felt guilty as I held the flame near the patch for a few seconds, the heat speeding up the action of the medication. She was helping me focus by helping me do this.

I couldn't have eight people relying on my direction in a high-stress surgery without the drug in my system to force me to be calm. I couldn't try my best to save that man's life unless I had the hot, powerful medication used for chronic-pain and cancer patients in my veins.

I did have chronic pain. I had the terrible burden of being responsible for the life, or death, of countless people a year threatening to crush me into putty. I needed my fix. This was my life. I could not fail at life.

_I was a mindless drone. _

_I was wasting my life away. _

_I never really had the chance to have a life. _

_**I was addicted.**_

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